


Silver Linings

by FlirtyFroggy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Champions League, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Match
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 11:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7046896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlirtyFroggy/pseuds/FlirtyFroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Disappointment is a strange thing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Linings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=99507#cmt99507): 'It seemed to me like Saul was the main player consoling Nando yesterday, and he has been doing so before. I'd love to read something about that. Crying Nando was heartbreaking.' I wrote a quick little fill for it, then decided to expand it.

Disappointment is a strange thing. A wily thing. A living thing. No matter how familiar you are with it, how prepared you think you are, it still finds new ways to get inside you, to burrow under your skin. Fernando had known how badly he had wanted this, how badly he had always wanted it, but it still takes him by surprise how much it hurts. It’s a physical thing too; it clogs his throat until he can’t speak, weighs down his limbs until he can barely move. His eyes blur with tears, and the sound of _Madridistas_ celebrating fades in and out like a bad radio signal; deafening and overwhelming one minute, then nothing but distant white noise the next. Someone hugs him, dressed in white he can’t bear to look at, and someone else shakes his hand. It’s hard to focus, to tell one face from the next, when he’s being cut open from the inside out. 

Another hug, and this one feels different. Saúl. Nonsense words and meaningless platitudes, his voice a whisper in his ear that drowns out everything else.

Disappointment is a strange thing. Saúl’s embrace doesn’t make it hurt any less, but he wraps his arms around him and holds on all the same.

~~

The bus is unnaturally quiet on the way back to the hotel. Saúl sits beside him and they don’t speak, just lean against each other. Saúl’s hand is on his wrist, gentle but firm, asking nothing and offering nothing either; an anchor holding him steady. Cholo gives another brief speech before they all disperse to their rooms. He doesn’t hide his disappointment but that’s okay; they all know it’s not them he’s disappointed with.

They part outside Fernando’s room, two doors down from Saúl’s, but Saúl catches his wrist again as he’s about to go inside. Fernando turns back and Saúl glances up and down the corridor, waits until the last door has shut and they are alone. Then he leans forward and kisses Fernando. It’s soft but certain; there’s no hesitation, and Fernando can feel something humming beneath the surface, something held in check. He pulls away before Fernando has time to find out what it is. “Come to my room later.” It’s not a question, but of course it’s not an order either. This is Saúl, after all. It’s an invitation, to be accepted or rejected as Fernando sees fit. Their shoulders brush as Saúl walks past him down the corridor and it takes Fernando a couple of attempts to get his key card to work, his hands not wanting to obey instructions. When he looks up, Saúl is gone and the corridor is empty.

He showered after the match — for a long time, leaning his head against the tiles, watching the water trickle over his feet and down the drain — but he feels like he needs to shower again, as though he could wash away the heaviness and the pain. He turns the water up as hot as he can stand it and scrubs at his hair and his skin. But no matter how much he scours, he is still him, and it still hurts, and they still _lost_. He hits the wall with the side of his fist in frustration and turns the water off. This isn’t what he needs.

He dries himself quickly, roughly towels his hair, then throws on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and pads barefoot down the corridor to Saúl’s room. Saúl’s eyes are red-rimmed when he opens the door. He doesn’t say anything but his mouth quirks up in an attempt at a smile and he tugs at a strand of Fernando’s messy hair. He turns away and Fernando follows him into the room, his eyes on his back. He’s still wearing the dress shirt and trousers he traveled from the stadium in, the jacket and tie discarded on the bed. Fernando can see his shoulder blades moving beneath the fine white material, and he reaches out and presses a hand to his back, feeling the heat of his skin through the shirt. Saúl stops but doesn’t look at him. Fernando slides his hand up to Saúl’s shoulder and is about to pull him closer when a flash of silver on the desk catches his eye. He moves over to the desk and picks up Saúl’s runners-up medal, turning it over in his hands. His own is still in his trouser pocket, unexamined and unwanted and now buried in a crumpled up heap on his bathroom floor. He runs his fingers over the embossed letters, the date, the little ball of stars shining in the light. It’s such a little thing, and so heavy in his palm. He’s sure the gold version isn’t as heavy as this. Saúl steps up beside him and his foot knocks against something that clangs dully. Fernando looks down to see the wastepaper bin he is sure belongs under the desk is sitting beside it, at their feet. “I was going to throw it away,” Saúl jokes half-heartedly, in that way people do when they’re trying to disguise the fact that it’s not really a joke.

“You shouldn’t,” Fernando says, laying the medal back down on the desk and turning to face Saúl. “You’ll be proud of it one day. Most players go their whole careers without even getting close to one of those things.”

Saúl’s mouth twists. It is not an expression Fernando ever wanted to see on his face. “If you say so.”

“And it can motivate you. Drive you on for next time.”

“Doesn’t seem to matter how driven you are. Hasn’t done much for Koke or Gabi or—”

“Don’t do that. It won’t help.”

“What will?”

Fernando doesn’t know if it’s an answer or just in place of one, but he cups Saúl’s cheek and kisses him. Saúl’s mouth moves against his and his fingers curl round the back of his neck, and Fernando feels something flicker through him; something hot and electric that sparks through the pain and frustration. He chases the feeling; chases it into Saúl’s mouth and over his jaw, down his neck. His fingers fumble at the buttons of Saúl’s shirt and he chases it there too, across the hot skin of his chest and shoulders. He chases it over to the bed, pushing Saúl down as he unzips his trousers and Saúl tugs Fernando’s t-shirt over his head. He catches it, finally, in the press of their hips, in the base of his own spine as Saúl’s fingers dig in there, in the soft sound Saúl makes at the back of his throat that sounds a little like something being surrendered. 

Fernando stops to look at the man lying beside him, take in the half-desperate eyes and flushed skin. That barely-restrained something is still there, a tension stringing through Saúl’s body.

“Something wrong?” Saúl asks. Fernando traces the words with his finger and watches Saúl’s lips part.

“What do you want?” A dangerous question to ask on a night like tonight, but Fernando has to ask. But Saúl frowns as though he doesn’t understand the question, as though the answer is obvious.

“You.”

He kisses Saúl again, slow and deep, the short hairs at the nape of Saúl’s neck bristling against his hand, and the spark turns into something steady burning low in his gut. Saúl grows restless under Fernando’s hands, under his mouth, and he is soon kicking off the trousers that had only made it halfway down his legs. He hooks a leg around Fernando’s thigh and slips a hand beneath his waistband. Fernando groans into his mouth as he wraps his fingers around Fernando’s erection. His free hand pulls at the waistband of Fernando’s tracksuit bottoms and Fernando pulls away just enough to wriggle out of them. He wraps a hand around both their cocks and Saúl does the same and slowly, falteringly, they find a rhythm.

There are many things Fernando has thought about doing with Saúl; about going down on him until he comes hot and hard in Fernando’s mouth; about quick, dirty fucks and long, slow nights of love-making. But that isn’t what they need right now. They both just need to feel this, feel the other’s body wrapped around them and the hot, building tension driving towards inevitable relief. The pleasant ache of limbs that are heavy from satisfaction instead of defeat.

Their hips are moving now, thrusting against each other and disrupting their rhythm. Eventually they give up on using their hands, give up on any kind of finesse or technique whatsoever, and just grind against each other. Fernando wraps his arms around Saúl and holds on, pulls Saúl into him and kisses him, moaning into his mouth as they move together, and for just a moment it feels like everything is as it should be.

Fernando comes first, feels something give way inside him, and he clutches at Saúl as his vision whites out. He’s still clinging to him, still breathless and coming down, when he realises that Saúl isn’t there yet. He’s close but he’s still holding back and Fernando doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he needs, what he wants. ‘You’, he had said, as though that was enough. But it isn’t enough, he isn’t enough. He holds him as tight as he can and whispers desperately in his ear. “Saúl, please, it’s okay. Come on, it’s all okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” And finally, finally, Saúl lets go, shaking against Fernando, his fingers twisting in his hair.

They lie together, sleepy and sated. Fernando clings to the feeling, knowing it won’t last long. But perhaps sleep can take him before disappointment returns to stake its claim. That would be alright, he thinks. If he could fall asleep like this, Saúl warm and naked in his arms, he would take that. Fingers brush against his cheek and he opens his eyes to find Saúl watching him. “Stay,” he says. Again, an invitation.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” 

Saúl’s smile is almost imperceptible, but it’s there and there is genuine happiness in it, creeping in around the edges. It feels like a lifetime since Fernando last saw it. Returning it comes more easily than he would have thought.

Disappointment is a strange thing. It burrows inside you; it cuts and it burns. But sometimes, just sometimes, it brings its own balm.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how comforting this comfort fic is. I'm kinda stuck on sad.


End file.
